The Orchids

I RISE from my chair and walk through the door to my office. In the Camp I had only a monkish cell in which to sleep. But here I have a spacious compound of several buildings and enjoy the luxury of a private office. The office is filled with mementos from my past. Some are on display: a lovely crystal vase, a stethoscope, a commendation from El Presidente, and the little riding crop I used to crack against my boot. Some things are hidden in my desk drawer: a battered tin box and a machine pistol. The aging Casanova of Schnitzler’s beautiful invention whiles away the hours remembering the inanity of his conquests and regretting that never in his life had he been loved, or even taken seriously, by a woman of intelligence. As I review my mementos I have but one regret: that there is not a single one among them for which I have any genuine affection.

Dr. Ludtz knocks softly and politely at the door of the office. He has said that he does not think it healthy for me to spend so much time alone. But that is a lie. He fears that I am composing my memoirs and that his own name might find a place within them. Each time he enters my study he casts his eyes about suspiciously, hoping to discover the protruding edge of some unfinished manuscript, even though he cannot imagine a man actually writing the words I would have to write in order to detail my life.

“Come in, Dr. Ludtz.”

Dr. Ludtz smiles as he enters. “Ah, you’re here then. Why so much time spent in this office, my dear friend?”

“The ventilation is pleasant.”

Dr. Ludtz nods, pretending satisfaction with my answer. “The ventilation, yes.” He glances at the empty chair in front of my desk. “May I?”

“By all means.”

He sits down and looks at the ceiling fan slowly turning above his head. “Excellent for ventilation.”

“Yes.”

He turns back toward me, his eyes carefully searching over the cluttered bookshelf behind me. “Have you read anything of note recently?”

“It is getting more difficult for me to read now,” I tell him. “I think my eyes are dimming slightly.”

Dr. Ludtz looks at me sadly. “Perhaps you’re overtired. Working so much in this office, that must be quite taxing, don’t you think?”

I do not reply.

“And the arthritis?” Dr. Ludtz asks gently. “Is that any better?”

“Arthritis does not cure itself, Dr. Ludtz.”

Dr. Ludtz shakes his head. “No. That is true. But it is bearable, I hope.”

“Bearable. Yes.” I have often wondered what Dr. Ludtz’s bedside manner was like before he became a doctor for the Special Section. I expect that it was gentle, kindly, utterly proper. Those large, beefy hands must have stroked the small pink cheeks of thousands of children before they became familiar with electroshock devices. We all have ironic histories, I suppose, but history has made some a good deal more ironic than others.

Dr. Ludtz watches me sadly. “Ah, the natural shocks that flesh is heir to.”

I smile indulgently. “You must learn to speak outside quotation from time to time, Dr. Ludtz.”

Dr. Ludtz looks slightly scolded. “But with learning one discovers that everything one might say has been said better by someone else, don’t you agree?” He turns away and rests his eyes on the river. “It’s very calm today. Perhaps we could get Alberto and Tomás to take us rowing on the river. That would be relaxing, don’t you think, Dr. Langhof?”

In the Camp he relaxed by lounging on his bunk blowing smoke rings at the ceiling. It became one of his obsessions to blow ten of them in a series, one after the other, like boxcars.

“I’m afraid I cannot join you,” I tell him.

“May I ask why, my dear friend?”

“I am in the middle of preparations.”

Dr. Ludtz blinks and stares at me worriedly. “Preparations for what?”

“For El Presidente’s visit.”

Dr. Ludtz looks relieved. “Ah, yes. I see.” He smiles contentedly. “I suppose it will be a lavish affair, as usual.”

“El Presidente prefers it lavish.”

Dr. Ludtz leans forward. “He must be treated with the greatest deference.”

“Yes.”

Dr. Ludtz smirks. “An esteemed visitor.”

“Indeed.”

He chuckles gently. “Tell me, Dr. Langhof, have you heard of the visit Hölderlin made to Goethe?”

“In Weimar?”

“Yes, Weimar. But have you heard the story of what passed between them?”

“Tell it, if you like.”

“Well, Hölderlin was only a young poet at the time,” Dr. Ludtz begins, “and of course Goethe was the old master. As you might imagine, Hölderlin had dreamed of this visit for quite some time. He expected an exalted conversation to pass between them. Such was not the case, however. In fact, the interview was very disappointing. For you see, Hölderlin found that all he could talk about in Goethe’s presence was the superiority of the plums he had eaten on the train between Jena and Weimar.” He laughs loudly. “The absurdity! Can you imagine?”

“How is your tomb progressing, Dr. Ludtz?” I ask.

“What’s that? My tomb? Oh, yes. Very well, of course I don’t really think of it as a tomb.”

“The liana vines seem determined to obscure it.”

Dr. Ludtz does not hear me. He has turned back toward the river. “So calm,” he says to himself, “wonderful for rowing.”

“Yes, quite wonderful.”

He turns to face me. “If I may be excused, Dr. Langhof, I think that I might take advantage of this fine day.”

“By all means, Doctor.”

“Are you sure you would not wish to join me?”

“Yes, I’m sure. I must make these preparations.”

“I understand, believe me,” Dr. Ludtz says. “El Presidente must have everything as he likes it.”

“If we are to continue to have everything as we like it,” I add.

“Yes. Absolutely,” Dr. Ludtz says quickly. “Absolutely correct in that.”

“Good day, Dr. Ludtz.”

Dr. Ludtz rises. “Good day to you. And please, not so much time in this office.”

“Thank you for your concern.”

He vanishes behind the door of my study, the little bulge of the automatic pistol clearly visible in the large back pocket of his flannel trousers. He sleeps with it on his nightstand, the barrel toward his coiled rosary. In all his life he has spoken one memorable sentence. As we stood watching the smoke billow up from one of the great brick funnels of the Camp, he turned to me and said in a voice of almost wistful repudiation, “One cannot imagine waltzing after this.”

He is outside now. I can see him through the window, his body neatly dissected by the blades of a large green fern. He is calling Alberto and Tomás, Juan’s teenage sons. For a moment they do not see him, caught up as they often are in a kind of manic play, an endless, banal chase from which no clear victor ever emerges.

He has caught their attention, and I see him motioning toward the small boat that bobs lightly on the river, a length of braided rope holding it to the bank. He is right. The river is very calm, a perfect day for rowing. And I can see him years before, sailing in a sleek white skiff, a blue European river rolling beneath him and crashing up against the sides of the boat, covering his face with spray.

Alberto and Tomás secure the boat. They smile at each other mockingly as they watch Dr. Ludtz lumber toward the boat and then heave himself awkwardly into it, causing it to groan and sway. To them this Teutonic Falstaff is no more than a mound of blubber who by some incomprehensible twist of circumstance employs and therefore commands them. Their bodies are tawny and sleek; his, ruddy and gelatinous. They are the trim young bulls; he, the imprisoned Minotaur. They cavort mindlessly in the humid forest, far beyond history’s mortmain; he is history’s dilapidated product.

With Dr. Ludtz securely seated, Alberto and Tomás leap agilely into the boat and take up positions fore and aft. Then they paddle slowly from the bank, the boat sliding across the surface of the river as effortlessly as a knife through air. Dr. Ludtz grabs each side of the boat and steadies himself. He does not trust the depths. Though the river is for rowing, it also has the terrible ability to swallow him up entirely. For him, the crocodiles that drift indifferently beneath the boat are wily demons from the underworld. His is the anxiety of the paranoid who has come to fear even his paranoia.

As the boat moves toward the center of the river, a large red bloom drifts slowly toward it. Dr. Ludtz watches as it nears him. When finally it has come close enough, he leans forward to scoop it up but, as he does so, jostles the boat. He quickly renews his grip. Holding to the edge of the boat, he watches the bloom float past him, his face slightly drawn and disappointed, a famished Tantalus from whose grasp all good things recede.